


Finding His Way

by sherlockian4evr



Series: Anything But a Game [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Depression, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drug Use, Flashbacks, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Medicine, Nightmares, Non-Consensual, Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Use, Past Sexual Abuse, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2018-11-18 00:36:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 15,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11280096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: Sherlock is improving since his rape, but he has a long way to go in recovery. John will be beside him the entire way.Picks up immediately after Hiding in Plain Sight.Beta read bySherlock1110through chapter 11.Beta read byFlyingMochastarting from chapter 13.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock enjoyed experimenting with the liver Molly had given him for a couple of days. John couldn't help thinking of it more as playing, but he didn't mind since his friend seemed almost happy.

Something else that happened over the next few days was Sherlock coming up to John shyly and somewhat skittish. He would stand there for several moments, lean towards him and steal a chaste kiss, then dash away to do something entirely unrelated. Each time it happened, the doctor's heart hammered for several minutes, expecting his friend to go off the rails, but thankfully he never did.

Sherlock still stole away to shower several times a day and when he finally stopped moving for any amount of time, he always settled on the sofa, but now he faced outward so he could watch John putter about. It seemed his injuries were healing nicely, his leg and ribs being the last to heal, but John wasn't worried, those physical injuries only needed time.

On the day the detective reluctantly binned the liver in the special biohazard bin John insisted he use (the contents of which were to be returned to Molly), Sherlock stared at the ceiling from the sofa for an entire 15 minutes before announcing, "Bored!"

John smiled behind the paper he was reading. Never had his friend's child-like behaviour been so welcome as that petulant cry of boredom. It was another tiny step on a long journey towards normalcy. "Would you like me to call Greg and see if he has any cold cases for you?" the doctor asked, setting his paper aside. "I'm sure he's got some he'd be willing to let you take a look at."

The detective's thoughts were clear on his face. His brow was wrinkled in thought and his eyes had taken on a troubled look. It was clear he knew Lestrade would be more than happy to bring the files to the Baker Street flat, but it was also clear that the thought was unacceptable. Sherlock sat up, facing the doctor. "We could go to the Yard," he said quietly, "to pick them up."

John nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah. It'll be good to get out for a bit." And he'd be right there if Sherlock needed him. "Why don't you get dressed and I'll call Greg?" In addition to asking for cold cases, he'd caution the DI against any mention of the rape. There wouldn't be a repeat of what had happened with Molly.

After John had made the call to Greg, he stood looking out the window onto Baker Street. Rather predictably, he could hear Sherlock in the shower. John knew that the calm that had surrounded them the last couple of days wouldn't last. All too soon something would happen that would trigger another panic attack or worse and he was no more equipped to deal with it now than he had been before. He took out his phone and placed a call, making an appointment to see Ella as he had meant to do days ago. Taking that step made him feel as if he had accomplished something, but the feeling didn't last long as there came a the sound of breaking glass from the bathroom.

The doctor rushed to the bathroom door and pounded on it with his fist. "Sherlock are you okay?" Without waiting for an answer, he started to open the door, but Sherlock beat him to it.

The detective had on his trousers, but nothing else. The fingers of his right hand dripped blood.

"What the fuck happened?" John asked, reaching for his friend's bleeding hand.

With a jerk of his head towards the now shattered bathroom mirror, Sherlock said, "I had an accident." In fact, he had looked in the mirror and, lost somewhere, had seen himself, weak and helpless, useless, pathetic, and couldn't stand the miserable sight so he had punched his reflection without thinking. The pain had brought him back to himself.

John didn't berate the detective, just let out a sad sigh. "Come along to the kitchen. Lets get you patched up." He led the detective to the kitchen and encouraged him to sit, then he fetched his kit and sat next to him. "You know, if you want to practice boxing, I highly recommend gloves and a punching bag," he said as he picked glass out of Sherlock's knuckles.

The detective rewarded him with a vague smile for his efforts. "Thank you, John," he said, wriggling his fingers.

"Would you stop that," John chided. "There, I think that's all the glass." He disinfected the wounds, then, after consideration, decided the detective didn't need any stitches. "You're incredibly luckly. All I need to do is bandage you up." He did so efficiently, finishing up by patting Sherlock bandaged hand. "Sherlock..." He couldn't bring himself to ask it, but he thought perhaps they shouldn't go to the Yard.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he observed the doctor. "Don't be ridiculous. What happened has nothing to do with our plans. I'm still bored and we're still going to see Lestrade."

"Right. Of course we are." John didn't argue, but he felt a strong sense of foreboding. He just hoped he was wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

During the cab ride to NSY, Sherlock sat as close to John as he could holding his hand in a tight grip. He didn't look at the city passing by as had always been his want, but stared at the back of the cabbie's head as if he didn't trust him. Jeff Hope hadn't affected him in any way, but clearly his recent ordeal had made him distrustful of strangers.

When they arrived at the Yard, Sherlock climbed out of the cab, leaving John to pay the cabbie. Together they entered the building and headed to Lestrade's floor. As they crossed the bullpen, Donovan stepped in their way, cutting them off. She looked the detective up and down, noting his limp and marked pallor. "What happened to you, freak? We haven't seen you for a while. I remember our last drugs bust. You got the crap beat out of you." She smiled cruelly. "You finally got what you had coming."

Sherlock had fallen a few steps back, feeling sickened and wanting to flee from her attack. For his part, John had been stopped from striking Sally, officer or not, female or not, by the timely arrival of Lestrade.

"Greg, he was going to hit me!" Donovan shouted, surprised. She had always regarded John as a comic bumbler. She had no idea how dangerous he could be.

The DI glared at her. "Go home, Sally. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Greg!"

"Just do it!" Lestrade snapped. He'd had enough of her. He'd be talking to his supervisor about getting her transferred off his team as soon as he finished talking to Sherlock and John.

Donovan glared at Greg as she shut her computer down and gathered her things, then she stalked off.

Lestrade looked around the bullpen, his gaze stern. "Get back to work. There's nothing to see here." To John and Sherlock, he said, "Come on, let's get to my office." He led the way, trusting in the doctor's protective instincts to drive him to get Sherlock behind a closed door. John did just as the DI had hoped and guided Sherlock to Greg's office. The moment they all entered, the DI closed the door and adjusted the blinds so no one could see in. "You don't have to say anything, John. I'll make sure she's off my team. That was the final nail in the coffin." Greg turned around to see the doctor standing beside Sherlock, holding his hand. He had to look away from the sight, it touched him so much. Without another word, he went and sat in his chair, moving papers around, giving them whatever time they needed.

After several minutes, Sherlock extricated his hand from the doctor's and, standing to his full height, turned around to face Greg. His face was completely blank. It chilled the DI to see the sheer absence of emotion on Sherlock's face. Greg glanced at John and the doctor shrugged. Apparently John had noticed the detective's lack of expression as well.

Just as Lestrade was about to apologise to Sherlock for what had happened with Donovan, the detective spoke up, "John said you have some cold cases for me." Sherlock sat in a chair across the desk from the DI, determined to pretend like nothing had happened. He wouldn't let something that hateful excuse for a human being had said control him. He was above that.

Both John and Greg were aware of how tightly the detective gripped the wooden chair arms, but they both chose not to say anything. Instead, the DI hefted a box off of the floor and dropped it onto his desk with a loud thunk. "I went through what we had and picked out the ones that looked interesting." Greg shook his head. "It's depressing just how many of these there are. Of course, most of them predate your involvement with the force."

"I should expect so." Sherlock had leaned forward and pulled the box towards him. He started fingering through the files, looking at the labels on the folders. The moment he noticed that his hands were shaking, he pulled back and shoved them in the pockets of his Belstaff. "These should be adequate," he told Greg, making sure his voice didn't crack. He felt like a complete failure, letting Donovan get to him just as he had promised himself he wouldn't do.

John, sitting in a chair next to Sherlock reached a hand towards him. "Sherlock, it's okay if you're both..."

"I'm fine!" the detective shouted at John, punctuating it with a glare. "Why wouldn't I be? I'm not fragile! You don't have to act as if I'm..."

Greg stood swiftly. "I'll give the two of you a few moments alone." He exited his office and closed the door behind him, then he stood there, arms crossed, standing guard.

"See! You've embarrassed me in front of Lestrade. Stop treating me like an invalid!" His face was twisted up in fury as he stood. "Don't follow me," Sherlock shot at John, then he stormed out of the office startling Greg.

The doctor stood there a few moments, his left hand clenching and unclenching, then he calmly collected the box of case files, nodded to the stunned DI and walked from the office himself. He'd go home and hopefully find Sherlock there. When he did, he definitely wouldn't shout at him. Definitely. No matter how much he wanted to.


	3. Chapter 3

John had walked three blocks with the box of case files when his phone rang. He set the box down out of pedestrian traffic and pulled his phone out of his pocket half hoping the call was from Sherlock. Only half, because he was still angry and didn't want to shout at the man. The call, however, was from Mycroft. "What do you want?" the doctor asked brusquely.

Mycroft's aristocratic tones answered, "Turn left down the next alley, Doctor Watson. Your presence is required." Before the doctor could ask why, Mycroft had hung up.

John swore as he picked up the box. He should have left it with Greg. Now he was stuck carrying the sensitive information around when he knew Sherlock had to be down that alley. Rushing along, John apologised as he bumped into a young woman, juggled his box, then turned down the alley.

At first, the doctor didn't see anything, then his eyes locked onto a bit of dark wool that lay splayed out on the ground, just peaking out from behind some old crates. As he approached, he could hear Sherlock's ragged breathing. It didn't sound like the detective was having a full panic attack... not yet. When he was close enough to see his friend fully, he set the box down, then crouched a few feet away from Sherlock and waited to be acknowledged.

Sherlock sat with his back against the brick wall that ran along one side of the alley. His legs were bent at the knees and his arms rested on them, straight out in front of him. His head drooped between his arms, causing his curls to cover his eyes. "Mycroft told you where to find me," he stated in an eerie tone. It sounded far too... not calm, but flat... for John's liking.

"Well, you know your brother." John shrugged, then sat down, not caring about the debris in the alley. Now that he had seen Sherlock, his anger had flowed away, at least for the moment. It was difficult to be angry with someone who looked so vulnerable. Later, in the dead of the night, the anger would come back as it did so many nights and he wouldn't know what to do with it, but he would deal with that when it happened.

Slowly, Sherlock stretched out his right leg until his shoe touched John's. "I made a fool of myself. Again." He shook his mop of curls and his hands trembled. "I don't know how you put up with me." The detective had made a one hundred and eighty degree turn from the defensive front he had put up at the Yard. Now he gave off a now too familiar air of defeat.

"I don't 'put up with you.' You're not something or someone to be put up with. You're my best friend. You're my whatever you want to call us, boyfriends, partners. I'm not going to give up on you because you have a bad moment or two." John nudged Sherlock's shoe back with his own. He longed to move closer and hug him tight, but was fairly certain it wouldn't be welcome.

"We can't be boyfriends. We haven't..." the detective broke off, his voice faltering.

John fought back a sigh. "I've told you before, that doesn't..."

"Don't say it doesn't matter!" Sherlock shouted, his emotions taking another one eighty. He had looked up and his glare struck John full on.

"Alright. Okay." John held his hands out in a placating manner. "I won't say it. It obviously matters to you. So..." The doctor fell quiet and waited for Sherlock to calm down.

It was a relief when the detective actually managed to do so without going into a panic attack or flying into another fit of shouting. John didn't rush his friend, he just sat there since his presence seemed to be tolerated, perhaps even welcomed. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of movement and turned his head. At the end of the alley, a black sedan waited to take them home. He decided not to mention it until Sherlock appeared to be well and truly in control of himself. There was still that lingering anger that his friend held towards Mycroft, after all.

Eventually, the time seemed right. John turned his head and looked pointedly down the alley. "It looks like our ride's here," he told his friend. "I, for one, am inclined to take it. I'm starting to get cold and I still have this box if files to take back to the flat." The doctor waited a moment, then asked, "You're not going to make me walk just because your pissed at your brother are you?"

With a sigh, the detective stood up and shoved his still shaking hands into the pockets of his Belstaff. "No," he said almost absently. "We can take his car." He wanted to get back to Baker Street and lock them both inside where no one would intrude upon them, where it was safe.

At that, the doctor breathed a sigh of relief. He stood, picked up the box of cold case files and gestured for Sherlock to proceed him. Once they were in the car, he began to relax. At least the detective couldn't pull a runner, not until they reached the flat anyway and he doubted he would try it at that point. The flat meant home and safety. Sherlock had become predictable in that. It made John sad to think it.


	4. Chapter 4

John sat across from Ella. Pleasantries had been exchanged and she had asked what had brought him back in for therapy. He knew that he had never truly opened up with her for his past sessions. He also knew this one was going to have to be different if he wanted to help Sherlock.

Looking down at his left hand, now balled into a fist, John took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "You've always been circumspect. You've never said anything outside of these sessions that I've told you..." He looked up and met her eyes directly. "Why I'm here... It can't leave this room. Not ever."

Ella didn't take offense, just nodded. "Of course. You know what's said here is safe. I won't repeat it elsewhere."

Managing a weak smile, John looked back down at his fisted hand. "It's about Sherlock. I need advice. He's been... He was... Damn." The doctor hit the armrest with his fist, then opened it and looked at the back of it for a moment.

"Just take your time."

"There was a case," John tried again, leading up to what had happened. "Sherlock went chasing after a suspect like he does and... it didn't go well." He closed his eyes and continued. "The man cornered him and... r-raped him." The doctor couldn't continue, his throat felt as though it had closed up on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he felt a single tear fall.

Ella knew how much Sherlock meant to John despite him never having actually vocalised it. She gave him time to gather himself together, before speaking. "That's a lot to handle. How are you holding up?"

"How am I holding up?" John asked with a bitter laugh. "I'm not the one who was raped, now, am I? I'm sitting back, watching him struggle without a fucking clue what I'm supposed to do to help. So, yeah, I'm fine."

"John, take some time. Breathe." Ella watched him as he visibly calmed himself down. "First of all, you're angry. It's completely alright and normal for you to be angry."

"Good, because I'm mad as hell."

* * *

On the way back to Baker Street from Ella's, John stopped in a small coffee shop to try and get his head around what they had discussed. She had offered to continue seeing him if that was what he wanted, but had suggested she refer him to a therapist that had more experienced treating rape trauma. He had accepted, hoping that he could learn more that might allow him to help Sherlock.

Ella had also given him information about a couples' support group for couples dealing with the aftermath of rape. Though John and Sherlock weren't officially a couple, she thought the group meetings might be beneficial even if only John attended. The group was completely anonymous and nothing was discussed outside the group.

Naturally, Ella had encouraged John to get Sherlock to seek help. He had taken the card of a recommended therapist for his friend, but he knew it was pointless.

Finishing his coffee, John stood up and exited the shop. Despite the sunny sky, the day seemed gloomy. He couldn't remember the last time it had seemed otherwise. If the days felt so dark and oppressive to him, what must they feel like to Sherlock? How did his friend find the strength to continue on? John suddenly felt the urgent need to be back home where he could lay eyes on the detective. He started running and didn't stop until he reached Baker Street.

When John burst into the flat, it was to find Sherlock playing his violin. Unfortunately, his abrupt entrance startled the detective and he almost dropped the instrument. Hands shaking, Sherlock managed to set the violin and bow aside safely before slipping to the floor.

"Jesus, sorry. Sorry." The doctor berated himself for ten times the idiot. "I just don't seem to be able to think. Sorry."

Sherlock looked up with him, wearing a shaky smile. "You never think. You're an idiot." He held out a hand, clearly expecting to be helped up.

At that, John swallowed and extended his hand, helping Sherlock to his feet.

"You were gone too long," the detective complained as he settled on the sofa. "Hudders has checked on me five times since you left. I was thinking of going out the fire escape."

"You would, too," John replied. So they were going to pretend that everything was fine. They'd been doing that since Sherlock's breakdown at the Yard. It made the doctor feel like he was walking on eggshells.

John went to put on tea and saw that his friend hadn't eaten the breakfast he'd fixed for him. He didn't say anything, just cleared it away, put on the kettle and set about making Sherlock a sandwich. It was long past the point that physical complications would be making it difficult for the detective to eat. Now it was down to old habits and, John was afraid, new mental scars. When everything was ready, he carried the tea and sandwich and placed it on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. "Eat. Doctor's orders."

"Dull," Sherlock proclaimed.

"It won't be when you end up in hospital over it." Without saying another word about it, John sat and began reading his paper. Eventually, he heard the satisfying sound of Sherlock eating and he allowed himself a small victory smile.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock knew John had been worried about him ever since their disastrous visit to New Scotland Yard. He couldn't bring himself to care. For the most part, the detective simply felt numb. Though, every now and again, he lashed out with caustic words. When that happened, Sherlock relished it because at least he was feeling something besides the numbness or the self loathing he had felt for so long.

The only other feeling he had felt recently was fear and that only came when he dreamt. It was always accompanied by the weight of a burly man atop him, laughing darkly, or the light touch of a different, ginger haired man whispering into his ear, "This will be just between us." He woke from such dreams disoriented and confused, not knowing who the ginger haired man was, not wanting to know. Soon, though, the familiar numbness would settle over him with John none the wiser anout Sherlock's nightmares.

The clinic had called and asked John to come in. He had started to demure, but Sherlock had convinced him otherwise, arguing that the last few days showed he would be fine. Now the detective was alone in the flat. He couldn't get motivated to do anything, not with the strange numbness that enveloped him.

From his position on the sofa, he could see the box of cold case files. Even they didn't appeal. What was the point? The cold cases had gone unsolved until now. A bit longer wouldn't matter.

At the sound of someone, Mycroft from the sound of it, entering the building, Sherlock groaned. He didn't feel like dealing with his brother. Instead, he rolled over and faced the back of the sofa so he wouldn't have to look at him or, hopefully, talk with him.

Mycroft entered the room and took in his brother's position. He could practically sense the apathy coming off Sherlock in waves. John had been right to call him with his concerns. "Hello, brother-mine. I hope you don't mind if I make myself at home by preparing tea for the both of us." He didn't get a response, but he hadn't really been expecting one.

In the kitchen, the government official made tea for them and set it on a tray, adding a few of Sherlock's favourite biscuits. He brought the tray back into the living room and set it on the coffee table, then picked up his mug of tea and sat in John's chair. He had hoped for a traditional 'what do you want?' or a nice 'sod off', but neither one had been forthcoming. His brother's silent acceptance of his presence highly disturbed Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed to himself. It was time to broach a subject that no one other than himself would dare bring up. "John is a good man. I have come to value his presence in your life, not merely for his steadying effect on you nor simply for his medical skills. He has become your dedicated friend. I couldn't have hoped for more." He paused to see if his words would garner a reaction, but they failed to elicit a visible response. "John is burning himself out, trying to help you. I see it in his eyes." At this, Sherlock's shoulders shifted. "You need to take some of the burden off of him, baby brother. You need to see a psychiatrist."

Mycroft's words burned through Sherlock's apathy in a flash. He sat up and spun around to glare at his brother, spitting out, "No! I won't subject myself to some idiot digging around in my mind! And they'll want to drug me. You know they will. They always do. They'll want to slow my brain down until it feels like mush."

After a few moments, the government official looked at his nails, then met Sherlock's eyes. "Be honest, baby brother. You already feel that way. Don't say no just because I'm the one who had suggested it. Do it for yourself. Do it for John." Mycroft stood. "If you would like a referral, I would be happy to give you one. It's up to you, now, Sherlock." He exited the flat, hoping against hope that he had done some good.

Back on the sofa, the detective sat with his knees pulled up to his chest. He was fairly vibrating with a mixture of rage, guilt and fear. He couldn't see a psychiatrist. He simply couldn't. He'd had enough of them as a child, with their prying questions, their medications and their labels. He hadn't needed them then and he didn't need them now.

But...

There was John. Sherlock tried to pull up a recent mental picture in his mind of his... flatmate. That was all they were now, right? After all, he had stopped stealing fleeting kisses from John after the disastrous visit to the Yard. He was too broken for a relationship.

Try as he might, he couldn't form an accurate image of John. What if Mycroft was right and his friend was burning himself out trying to take care of him? That was completely unacceptable. He started rocking, unable to decide what to do.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time John came home, Sherlock had calmed himself down somewhat. At least he wasn't rocking anymore. He sat on the sofa, curled into the smallest ball his injured leg would allow.

John took one look at him and knew something must have happened whilst he was at the clinic. His concern shot through the roof, but he tried not to let it show. "I'm glad to be home," he said as he shrugged off his coat. He hung it on the nearest hook, then sat down on the sofa, the opposite end from his flatmate. Toeing off his shoes, the doctor propped his feet up on the coffee table. "Is everything alright?" John asked casually.

Sherlock shifted, but didn't uncurl from his protective position. His gaze was locked on John. The doctor looked tired, more tired than a shift at the clinic could account for, and the lines around his eyes and across his forehead were deeper. The guilt he had been feeling since his brother left trebled in intensity. "I'm sorry, John," he said, his voice rough.

Turning his head to look at his friend, John asked, "Sorry for what?" He looked around the flat, puzzled. Everything seemed to be intact. "The kitchen's not on fire or anything, so I don't see what you need to be sorry for." He punctuated his statement with a smile, though he was still worried. What could Sherlock be going on about?

On the other end of the sofa, the detective ducked his head, hiding his face against his bony knees. "I'm a burden on you. You shouldn't be spending your time worrying about me or trying to... to... fix me."

John turned, pulling his knee up onto the sofa so he could face the detective. "First of all, you're not a burden, you're my best friend." And if they made it through this maybe something more. "Secondly, I can no more stop worrying about you than you could stop worrying about me if our roles were reversed. And finally, I'm not trying to 'fix' you. I just want to help you." It was frustrating to be having this conversation. How could Sherlock think himself a burden?

Sherlock was frantically shaking his head. He looked up. "I can read the toll it's taking on your face. I should... I need to start taking care of myself, not relying on you so much." He took a deep breath and continued, "Maybe I should see a psychiatrist... to make things easier on you." There. He'd said it, though it pained him to agree with Mycroft in any way. That and he still had doubts about the usefulness of psychiatry in general, but it was for John's sake. He'd do anything for him.

The doctor bit his lip and nodded. "Alright." He didn't like the idea that Sherlock was agreeing to see a psychiatrist for him, but at this point he'd accept whatever it took to get him to see one. "Ella gave me the names of several. Do you want to pick one or..."

"You do it. Please." Sherlock's eyes looked so sad and vulnerable as he asked. He had made the decision, that should be enough. It wasn't fair to make him choose and schedule the appointment as well.

"Fine. Fine. But you really should be the one to call." John watched Sherlock crumble under his words and it made him feel ill. "Alright. I shouldn't do it, but I'll schedule an appointment for you."

The detective visibly relaxed, dropping his feet to the floor and sitting up properly. He still felt the urge to resist seeing the psychiatrist, but John already looked less strained. "Thank you."

"No problem," the doctor said as he stood to go make tea. After he had put the kettle on, he pulled out the paper Ella had given him with the list of referrals. He had already investigated them, though he hadn't actually expected Sherlock to agree to see any of them. Again, he wondered what had happened that day. John finished making the tea and shoved the paper into his pocket, then he carried the tea through to the living room, setting Sherlock's on the table in front of him.

Taking his tea with him, the doctor went up to his room for a bit of privacy.. He set his tea down on his dresser, then pulled out his mobile and the list, then he dialled the number of the psychiatrist.

Downstairs, Sherlock had picked up his tea and was holding it. He let his eyes fall shut and tried to convince himself he had made the right decision. John seemed pleased enough, but he was still uncertain. The detective's eyes flew open. What had he got himself into? He'd have to talk to whomever John had chosen. His hands started shaking so badly at the idea that he had to set his tea down on the coffee table to keep from spilling it.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!

He didn't want to think about what had happened, let along talk about it with some stranger. Why had he succumbed to sentiment even if it was for John's sake? The doctor could leave anytime he chose and get away from the madness, from Sherlock, and he should. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he began to panic in earnest. He'd never make it without John.


	7. Chapter 7

When John came back downstairs he found Sherlock curled up on the sofa, clearly distraught. All thought of the appointment he had just made fled as he approached his friend slowly, trying not to upset him more. "May I sit down?" he asked gently. At the detective's small nod, John sat next to him. In moments, Sherlock had repositioned himself with his head on the doctor's shoulder, his face completely hidden.

The whole thing felt incredibly fragile and it didn't escape John's notice how much Sherlock had to trust him to sit like this, especially in such a distraught state. He didn't utter a word, not knowing what he could possibly say to offer comfort. Still, he was willing to sit there for hours if need be. He'd do anything for Sherlock. Anything.

As John sat there, he vacillated between sorrow for Sherlock and anger at the whole situation. He wanted to do something... hurt someone, but that ship had long sailed, there was no one left to hurt. After some time, he was pulled from his thoughts by a soft snore. Sherlock had somehow managed to fall asleep, a true sign of his exhaustion. Suddenly the doctor wanted to cry. He couldn't believe the trust his friend put in him and he silently vowed that he would do everything in his power to deserve that trust.

When the detective woke over an hour later, he felt sore from the position he had slept in and physically a bit hung over from his panic attack, but now he felt strangely calm and at peace. He opened his eyes and, sitting up, took in the visage of John who looked concerned. "I didn't mean to fall asleep on you. How's your shoulder?" It had to be paining his friend.

"It's fine. I'm fine." John resisted the urge to reach up and massage said shoulder, but he did allow himself to stretch. He fully expected Sherlock to move away from him now that the detective was awake, but Sherlock remained seated close by, their thighs touching.

The detective noticed John's surprise and looked down and away. "I feel... safer with you nearby. I don't think I could say that of anyone else." Not only that, but he felt safer touching John. If he was that close to him, no one stood a chance of hurting him. It wasn't a healthy reason to want to be so close to him, he knew, and it was getting all muddled up with the other feelings he had for John, but had tried to shove back into his Mind Palace when he decided to call a halt to the kisses. The problem was, those feelings kept trying to creep back out. How could he know if what he felt was love or desperation? A sick needy dependence?

"That's... thank you," John said, his voice thick. "That means more to me than you'll ever know." He wanted to hug Sherlock to him tightly and not let go, but that was the absolute worst idea ever. Instead, he reached for the remote. "I'm in the mood for some crap telly if you are." It was something they could share with relative safety as long as thry avoided anything triggering. They stuck mostly to documentaries, gameshows and things they had already watched a dozed times. The later category was John's favourite as the detective never failed to come up with new scathing observations no matter how many times they had watched a programme.

"That would be fine." Sherlock dragged the blanket from the end of the sofa over and spread it across both his legs and John's.

As John selected a programme, he relaxed into the cushions. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. Your appointment is day after tomorrow at one. You're lucky. They had a cancellation." As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt his friend go stiff. "Sherlock?"

The detective forced himself to relax, something he could only manage due to John's proximity. "It's nothing. I'm fine," he lied. "Go back to Top Gear. You passed it. It's that one you like so much." Sherlock slouched down on the sofa and leant against John's arm, ignoring the worry he could feel coming off the other man in waves. "If I wasn't so comfortable, I'd ask for tea." He hoped John would take the bait and be distracted. John did.

"Stay right there. I'll make us some tea. I'll even open that pack of chocolate hobnobs for you. You can have as many as you want and I won't say a word." The doctor gave Sherlock's knee an absent pat then got up and went into the kitchen.

The detective used the short time that it took John to make tea to truly compose himself. He'd said he would see a psychiatrist and he wasn't going to go back on his promise to John. He'd just have to hide his anxiety from his friend, no matter how difficult that proved to be.

When John came back, Sherlock took his tea with thanks, then scooted closer to the doctor after he sat down. He didn't really want the hobnobs, but since John had gone to the trouble to bring them, he nibbled on them. Eventually he rested his head on his friend's shoulder once again, enjoying the brief moment of peace.


	8. Chapter 8

John and Sherlock were in the waiting room at the psychiatrist’s office. Yesterday had been a nightmare and the doctor had stayed close in case he was needed. Last night had been even worse and they both looked it.

Sherlock was thrumming with anxiety about the upcoming appointment, shifting and fidgeting in the chair.

The doctor offered him his hand and he took it. “Try to relax. I know it's difficult. Just concentrate on breathing.” He was about to say something more when Sherlock’s name was called.

Freezing, the detective gave John a panicked look.

“I can come with you,” John offered.

Sherlock took the doctor’s hand and pulled him to his feet as he, himself, stood. Together, they followed the psychiatrist back to his office.

The psychiatrist gave them a professional smile. ”I’m Doctor Dieter.” He held out his hand and John shook it.

“John Watson and this,” he gestured towards his friend, “is Sherlock Holmes.”

“It’s good to meet you. Why don't you both take a seat?” The psychiatrist sat and waited for them to get comfortable. “I have a good idea what has brought you here today based on what you, John, said when you made the appointment. For that reason, I have to ask. Sherlock, would you like John to leave the room?”

The detective’s heart rate shot up even higher and his breathing became rapid. He barely managed to get out, “No. He stays.”

Doctor Dieter nodded. “That’s fine. I just had to make sure.” He leant back in his chair. “I can't help but notice that you're experiencing a great deal of anxiety. Before we talk about anything else, I want to start with the basics, help you get your body back under control.”

Sherlock reached for John’s hand and the doctor took it. “That would be… good,” the detective said, “But I don't know if it's possible.” 

“It is, if you work at it. Right now you're in fight or flight. I assume you know what that is.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course I do.”

Doctor Dieter didn't take any offense. “Good. Can you feel how you're breathing shallowly?”

The detective looked puzzled. “I’m just breathing. Like always.”

“It may feel that way to you, but you're not. Try this.” The psychiatrist placed one hand on his chest and one over his diaphragm. “Put your hands where I've got mine.”

Sherlock complied.

“Now tell me, which hand do you feel moving.”

The detective frowned as he concentrated. “My right hand,” he said, indicating the hand on his chest.

“Right. If you were taking full, deep breaths, it would be your other hand moving. Give it a go. Try to breathe so your left hand moves.”

Sherlock glanced at John who had his hands in the same position as the other two men. His friend nodded at him encouragingly. The detective tried to take a deep breath, but it felt as though he couldn't get enough air and only the hand on his chest moved. He tried a few more times, then drew his knees up to his chin. “This is pointless!”

“Sherlock…” John began, but the psychiatrist interrupted.

“It's fine. It's completely normal to get frustrated,” Doctor Dieter said. “You just have to keep practicing.

The fact that Sherlock didn't scoff at being called ‘normal’ disturbed John greatly. He had to look away to hide how upset he was.

“Sherlock, I need you to try again,” the psychiatrist urged.

Sherlock didn't look as though he was going to comply, but after several long, drawn out moments, he put his feet back on the floor and put his hands in position. After several tries, he finally felt the hand over his diaphragm move and his other hand stayed motionless. “It doesn't feel natural,” he complained.

Doctor Dieter smiled. “It will for a while. You've been in fight or flight for a long time. It's going to take patience and practice before breathing that way feels right to you again.”

Sherlock looked glum at the prospect. His shoulders were raised and he crossed his arms over his chest.

John wanted to reach over and pat him on the knee, but he was sure it would be unwelcome, especially in Doctor Dieter's presence.

“In addition to your breathing, I can see you're very tense. I want you to try to relax,” the psychiatrist requested.

Sherlock uncrossed his arms and let them fall to his sides, but he didn't really relax.

Doctor Dieter didn't seem very surprised. “I know you're an intelligent man, Mr. Holmes. I follow Doctor Watson’s blog. So think about the muscles in the human body. They can either be tense or relaxed. There's no in between. What I want you to do is clench every muscle in your body, then release. That will force you to relax. Try it.”

The theory was sound, Sherlock knew that, so he tried it. He could feel the difference all over his body. It didn't last long, though, before he tensed back up. The psychiatrist noticed.

“It’s like the breathing exercise. You need to practice it before it becomes truly effective. And anytime you feel a panic attack coming on, practice either of the techniques - the muscle exercise and if that doesn't work, move on to the breathing.”

Sherlock nodded. He liked having something practical in his repertoire to use. It felt… comfortable. “Alright.”

Doctor Dieter smiled. “Good. Now let's discuss medication.”

Sherlock’s armour came back up immediately.


	9. Chapter 9

John suppressed a sigh at Sherlock’s reaction to just the mention of medication. He wanted to grab his friend by both arms and shake some sense into him. Medications weren't the invention of some demonic force. They had their place.

“There’s no point in discussing tablets,” Sherlock said, his voice going hard and all his anxiety seeming to vanish. “I won't take them.”

Doctor Dieter regarded Sherlock for a few moments before asking, “Is there a particular reason why?”

“I refuse to take anything that would interfere with my mind. Drugs would merely slow me down. I require my mind to function at its fastest and best.” Sherlock let go of John’s hand and crossed his arms in front of him.

“I see,” the psychiatrist said quietly. “And is it? Right this moment, can you honestly say your mind is functioning at peak efficiency?”

Sherlock looked away from Doctor Dieter. In truth, he knew his mind wasn't functioning properly at all, but he was loathe to admit it.

“Sherlock…” John began, but stopped at the glare his friend gave him. His left hand closed into a fist, but he gave no other sign of his increasing frustration.

Doctor Dieter sought to engage Sherlock’s intellect once again. “I image you know what serotonin is,” he commented.

“Of course I do. It's a neurotransmitter that carries signals between neurons.” Sherlock still had his arms crossed defensively.

“In prolonged depression, serotonin levels drop. One of the medications I want you to consider is an SSRI,” the psychiatrist told him. “SSRIs work by blocking the reabsorption of serotonin in the brain, making more serotonin available. In effect, it's simply providing you with more of what your brain needs to help you cope with your depression.”

The detective huffed a breath. He hadn't admitted to being depressed, at least not out loud. Still, he knew he was. He glanced at John and saw his hopeful expression. “You said that was one of the meds you want me to take. What else?”

Doctor Dieter noted that the detective hadn't agreed to anything. Not yet. “I would like to prescribe you something for your anxiety. Two medications, actually. The first, you would take daily on a long term basis. The second would be something you would take only when you felt the imminent onslaught of a panic attack. It is, however, addictive, so I would ask you to use it only when absolutely necessary.”

At this, John spoke up, concern in his voice. “You are aware of Sherlock’s history.”

“Yes, but I feel the benefits outweigh the risks in this case.” The psychiatrist next addressed Sherlock. “Of course, this is all up to you. No one can force you to do anything.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. He didn't want to take drugs that would alter his brain chemistry. On some level, he knew that was ridiculous. He had done just that every time he had taken a hit. Another glance at John reminded him how much his friend wanted him to do this. “What if I try these meds and find them more troublesome than helpful?”

“Then it will be your decision if we make adjustments or discontinue them altogether,” Doctor Dieter explained. “Although I would hope you would choose to do the former. All I ask is you try these medications for two weeks before you give up on them.”

“Alright,” the detective finally agreed. He could put up with anything for two weeks. He wouldn't make any promises beyond that.

Beside him, John relaxed visibly. His relief was so great he felt tears prickle in his eyes. He blinked them away, not wanting Sherlock to see.

Doctor Dieter scribbled out the prescriptions on his pad and tore off the page, handing it to Sherlock. He glanced at the clock. “Our time’s up for today. I’d like to see you back in three days. Practice those exercises I gave you between now and then.” He stood up and opened the door.

“That’s it?” Sherlock asked. “We’re not going to talk about…”

“Not today,” the psychiatrist affirmed.

Surprised, Sherlock looked at John who seemed just as surprised as he was. The two of them got up and left, stopping long enough to schedule the detective’s next appointment.

* * *

Sherlock stared out the window of the taxi. The appointment with Doctor Dieter hadn't been what he had expected, not at all. He had thought the man would immediately try to get him to talk about the attack and he had been prepared to refuse to say anything. Instead he had got what seemed to be practical advice. He still wasn't sure about the meds, though.

Beside him, John rested his head against the seat. He just hoped Sherlock would keep his promise. If he didn't, the doctor didn’t know what he would do. The strain of dealing with his friend’s anxiety and depression was getting to John. He was starting to feel like he, too, was coming apart at the seams. Not to mention he missed the kisses they had shared before the setback. He felt guilty for that, but he missed the extra closeness. Sherlock let him hold his hand on occasion, but that was it. What John really wanted to do was hold him forever, protect him and never let him go. He dry washed his face and told himself to get over it, but it wasn't easy. His nerves were wearing thin.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: drug use.

Sherlock sat in his chair for once. It was the middle of the night and the lights were off. He had checked the locks on the doors half a dozen times, but he still couldn’t convince his brain that it was safe to sleep. He had spent the last 30 minutes practicing his breathing exercises and he had even tried the muscle relaxation techniques Doctor Dieter had recommended. Nothing was working though.

In a fit of pique, the detective picked up the nearest object which happened to be a mug of cold tea and threw it across the room. The shattering sound was satisfying. He stood up and started throwing everything within reach. Each clatter and crash brought a grim smile to his face and warded off the panic attack that had been impending.

“What the bloody hell is going on in here?!” John shouted as he stormed into the living room looking completely dishevelled, his hair standing up in spikes.

“What does it look like?” Sherlock asked acidly. He kicked the table by his chair over, not caring that it hurt his foot.

“Stop. Just stop.” Without thinking, John grasped him by the upper arms. “This isn’t accomplishing anything.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide and feral. He broke away from the doctor’s grip and shoved him back. “Don’t you dare touch me,” he hissed, voice dangerous and low. “What makes you think you have the right? All you want to do is paw at me. I can see it in your eyes when you think I’m not looking. You want to have sex with me just like him.”

John felt like he had been slapped. “You do realise you just put me in with a rapist,” he said, his voice shaking with hurt and barely controlled wrath. He didn’t wait for a reply. He didn’t trust himself to keep calm. The doctor stalked to the door, slipped on his shoes and his coat and stormed out of the flat. It didn’t matter that he was wearing pyjamas. He had to get out of there before he did or said something he would regret later.

Sherlock’s entire body jolted at the sound of the door slamming. He stood there in the living room for several long minute, completely stunned. When he did finally move, it was to fall into a ball of misery on the floor.

What he had said to John kept playing over and over in his mind. How could he have compared his friend to that man? He loathed himself. John would surely leave him now and he couldn’t face that.

Sherlock unwound himself and stood. With great determination, he put on his Belstaff and quietly left the flat. He would succeed in his mission where he had failed before.

It didn’t take the detevtive long to find a route free of CCTVs. He flinched every time he saw anyone that vaguely resembled his rapist, but he was determined to continue.

After what seemed an eternity, he found the person he had been looking for. An exchange was made, cash for a small vial of his favourite solution, then Sherlock made his way back to the flat.

It didn’t matter that John would be angry at him for using, Sherlock reasoned. The doctor would be moving out anyway after what he had accused him of. He took off his coat and dropped it on the floor.

Going into his bedroom, he pulled a small wooden box from the bottom of the cupboard and opened it. In short order, he had injected himself and set the drug paraphernalia aside.

Reclining on the bed, Sherlock relished the feeling of the high as it hit. Finally, finally, nothing hurt anymore. He didn’t feel hopeless or sullied. He felt alive. Why hadn’t he done this before?

* * *

John had wandered the streets for hours. His limp had come back and was quite pronounced. Every few blocks, he had stopped and swore profusely before continuing on his way. The rational part of his mind had kept telling him Sherlock hadn't meant what he had said, but it hadn't been very loud. Until now.

With a sigh, John scrubbed at his face. He needed to go back to the flat and make sure Sherlock was alright. He never should have grabbed him like he had. Now he felt guilty – he had helped bring about Sherlock’s outburst.

The doctor turned around and headed back to Baker Street. His head felt like it was about to explode and his heart ached, not just for himself, but for Sherlock as well. If only he had grabbed his wallet, he would have taken a cab back to the flat, but as it was, he was forced to walk.

By the time he got back to 221, he was chilled. He fumbled the key, but finally got the street door opened. When he got upstairs to B, he was disappointed not to find Sherlock in the living room. John reminded himself it was for the best that his friend got some sleep. That was when he noticed the Belstaff in a pile on the floor.

“Sherlock?” John called, heading towards his friend's room. He found the door was ajar and pulled it open. On the bed, he found Sherlock and, by his side, the wooden box along with the used needle and empty vial.

The doctor’s heart fell. “Well, fuck.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Drug use.

Sherlock sat up on the bed, one leg dangling off the edge, and looked at John. It should have hurt to see him standing there looking sick, but the artificial euphoria of the cocaine cushioned him from the pain. “Hello, John. You’ve come back to get your things. I’ll stay in here, out of your way. You won’t even know I’m here.” He stood up and tried to shut the door in his friend's face, but the doctor wouldn’t allow it.

John was angry, so very angry. “What. The. Fuck.” He shoved the door open and stepped forward, forcing Sherlock to stumble back until the backs of his legs hit the bed and he sat on it abruptly. “I leave the flat to get some air and try to calm down and this,” he gestured towards the drug paraphernalia, “is what I come back to?”

“It’s not really any of your concern.” Sherlock pulled his legs up on the bed and lay down, closing his eyes. He didn’t care about John’s anger. He knew he would later, but right now it didn’t matter. “Go away.”

John's left hand clenched into a fist. He knew it was pointless trying to talk to his friend right then: he was too angry and Sherlock was too high. He looked at the box that lay on the bed. Inside it lay the vial with just a bit more liquid in it. He snatched it up. “Is this all of it?” he asked, using his captain's voice.

Sherlock cracked an eye open, looking at him. He snorted. “I can always buy more.” He should have got more earlier, but he had just wanted to get back to the flat as fast as possible. The way he currently felt, he wouldn’t have a problem going out to procure his next dose. John could have that one.

“Right.” John closed his fist around the vial and left the room, closing the door hard behind him. He wanted to scream, to hit something. He had thought Sherlock had been doing, not alright, but he had been making it day by day. It would be so much easier if he didn’t care, then he could walk away from the whole bloody mess, but John did care.

The doctor walked over to his chair and collapsed into it. He sat there for several long minutes before he heard the door downstairs open and shut. The sound was followed by footfalls on the stairs. He wasn’t surprised when Mycroft entered, looking grim.

Without a word, the government official sat in Sherlock’s chair. He didn’t look is usual pompous self, he looked tired and defeated. After several moments of silence, he spoke, “I feared it would come to this. I had hoped... Foolish of me, I know.”

John stared into the fireplace, not feeling like talking. He knew if he did, he’d take his anger out on Mycroft and for once he didn’t deserve it. Sherlock’s brother had been nothing but supportive since this whole mess had started.

After another long silence, Mycroft asked, “What caused it? If you don’t mind telling me. I should like to know.”

John barked a brittle laugh and covered his face with his hands. “He was having a bad night and said some things.” The doctor swallowed hard remembering Sherlock’s accusatory words. He dropped his hands. “I... I reacted badly and had to get out. I never should have left him alone.”

“I see.” Undoubtedly Sherlock had said the most hurtful thing imaginable to make John flee. Mycroft wanted to be angry with the doctor, but he couldn’t. He hated his brother’s ability to hurt most the people he... well, the people Sherlock loved. “What are you going to do?”

“How the fuck should I know!” John snapped. Why was it up to him? It wasn’t fair. No, what wasn’t fair was Sherlock getting raped, he told himself guiltily. God, he hated this. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s just hard.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I'll stay here and try to keep him from leaving the flat. But if he’s determined...”

“Shall I put my men on the doors?” Mycroft asked. He would defer to John's judgement... for now.

The doctor hesitated to say yes. If he did, Sherlock would see it as the worst sort of betrayal. “Not just yet, though it may come to it. Let me try talking some sense into him once I’ve had a chance to calm down a bit. But take this.” He handed the partially filled vial to Mycroft who took it.

“I shall dispose of this.” The government official stood. “Call me if you need me or if anything changes.”

John nodded and Mycroft slipped out the door.

In the bedroom, Sherlock hadn’t been oblivious to his brother’s visit. He hadn’t heard the exact words that Mycroft had exchanged with John, but he was confident he knew their nature. The other two men were planning his life and how to control it. He wouldn’t put up with that from his brother nor would he put up with it from John. His life was his own and no one else's.

His delightful high was wearing off. He didn’t relish a confrontation with John, though the man deserved it. He’d wait him out and refresh his supply after the doctor had gone to sleep and this time, he would buy enough to last him several days.

He settled in to wait. It seemed to take forever and, against his will, his body succumbed to sleep after the last of his high wore off. It was dark and quiet when the dream overtook him.

_Sherlock was being attacked in the bathroom in the underground. He fought his attacker off as best he could. When he caught a glimpse of his the man, it wasn’t who he expected. His attacker was faceless with bright ginger hair and was laughing at him as he brought his mouth to Sherlock’s for a brutal kiss._

The detective woke up screaming into the night, terrified.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has become increasingly difficult for my beta to read, so I'm going it without her from here on out. If you see any errors, please let me know. Thanks.

John jerked awake from where he had fallen asleep in his chair. He hadn’t wanted to sleep upstairs. That would have made it far too easy for Sherlock to sneak out of the flat to procure more cocaine.

Without stopping to think, he rushed towards his friend’s bedroom. John opened the door to find Sherlock sat upright in bed, his trembling hands covering his face. “Sherlock.”

“Go away,” the detective said in a ragged voice. He was tired of being seen like this, shaken and falling apart. At least he wasn’t in a full blown panic, but the vision of bright ginger hair filled his mind with both terror and confusion. His rapist had had dark hair, so where had his nightmare vision come from? The element of the unknown made it seem all the more horrible.

“No. I’ve made that mistake once already.” John drew cautiously near, stopping beside the bed. “May I sit?” he asked, his voice calm and gentle. “I won’t talk. I just want to be with you.”

After a moment, Sherlock let his hands fall from his face and he nodded, though he turned his head to look away from his friend. The anger and frustration that had driven him out of the flat in search of drugs had fled. In it’s place was a new kind of fear and a terrible guilt. He wanted to hide. He wanted to be comforted. He hated himself for both desires.

The doctor sat there quietly. He wanted to hug Sherlock, but it would obviously not be welcomed at the moment. Instead he waited patiently, just keeping him company. At least he could do that much and, thankfully, it was being accepted.

Slowly, Sherlock seemed to relax. He leaned back against the headboard and let his eyes fall shut. His fear had faded to something manageable. Now his guilt was at the forefront of his thoughts. “John...” To his horror, he felt tears welling up in his eyes. He had cried far too much in recent weeks and he loathed it as much as he hated himself.

“Whatever it is, it’s fine.” They had things to talk about, but this wasn’t the moment for it. John was more than willing to wait until the morning to face that struggle.

“No, it’s not. What I said... I never... I know you would never hurt me like that.” His voice broke on the last word and he brought his hand up to cover his eyes. “You’re the only good thing I have right now and I said such a horrible thing, then you left and it was my fault so I did something so, so stupid. But please,” Sherlock’s hand shook where it covered his eyes, “please don’t go. I won’t do it again. I won’t.” He doubled over, his chest pressed to his knees as he began shaking with sobs.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, “I’m going to touch you.” He held his hand out, hovering over his friend's shoulder, waiting to see if he would protest. When he didn’t, the doctor let his hand settle on Sherlock’s shoulder and started rubbing soothing circles there. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re in this together. Alright? If you can’t trust in anything else, trust in that.”

Sherlock nodded, though he couldn’t stop his sobs. He should be over this by now. He didn’t understand why he wasn’t. He’d faced other potentially traumatic events in his life and had simply shrugged them off, barely pausing to notice. Now his mind was inventing new ways to torment him by creating assaults that had never even happened.

Even as John comforted his friend, he felt as if he was being torn apart on the inside. He wanted to trust Sherlock’s promise, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He needed to talk to someone desperately because he couldn’t hold everything in much longer, not even to spare Sherlock, but right then, he just had to get them through the night. Thank God he’d be seeing Ella tomorrow.

Eventually, the detective quieted and a few moments later, he sat back up, leaning heavily against the headboard. His face was pale and splotchy from where he had been crying. “I'll be alright now. You don’t have to watch over me,” he said, his voice roughened from his tears. He would be, for a given value of alright. He wouldn’t get anymore sleep tonight and he doubted he’d be able to vanish the vision of the ginger haired man entirely, but John didn’t seem to be planning on leaving permanently, so he would survive. That’s what it was about at this point, wasn’t it? Survival.

John wanted to offer to stay the night, but he thought it best to let his friend maintain as much control as possible. “Alright. But call if you need anything.” He gave the bed a pat as he stood to leave the room. In the doorway, the doctor paused. “I know you didn’t mean what you said. Before. I’m sorry I let it get to me.” With a sharp nod, he left the room. He didn’t go upstairs, though. Instead, he took up his prior place of vigil, his chair, now concerned that Sherlock would have another nightmare. He wanted to be nearby if he did.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [FlyingMocha](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingMocha/pseuds/FlyingMocha) for volunteering to beta read for me on this fic.

“I just get so... frustrated.” John clenched his left hand into a fist as he stared a hole into the opposite wall. He was well into his session with Ella and that had been the first real confession he had made.

“Is frustrated the word you wanted to use?” Ella asked calmly.

John shook his head sharply. “What? Do you want me to say I get angry? Fine. I do. He’s Sherlock for Christ's sake. Shouldn’t he be getting over this?” It wasn’t fair to demand that, he knew, but... “Nothing affects him, not like this. He shakes off broken bones and stab wounds like they’re nothing. It’s all just ‘transport' to him, so why is he getting worse instead of better!?” The bitterness and anger in John's voice shocked him and he looked down, feeling ashamed of himself.

Ella remained calm as always. “It's normal to be angry, John.”

“No. Not like this.” He closed his eyes. “Sherlock's been through hell. He has a right to be angry. Not me.”

“Are you angry with Sherlock?”

“What?! No! I’m angry with the bastard that hurt him. I’m angry with myself that I can’t fix this for him. I’m angry that...” John shook his head, unable to continue.

Ella made a note in her notebook. “You see yourself as his protector.”

The doctor scoffed. “Some protector I turned out to be. I wasn’t there when he needed me.” He glanced at the clock on the wall, willing it to move faster.

“You feel guilty for leaving him even long enough to come here.”

“He's not alone. Mrs. Hudson is keeping him company.” But he was the one who should be there. What if Sherlock had a panic attack whilst he was out? It didn’t bear thinking about.

Ella pursed her lips. For her that was a momentous expression. She normally kept her face blank during their sessions. “And do you think that’s what he needs? From what you’ve told me in the past, Sherlock is a fiercely independent individual. Might he not take the constant hovering and watchfulness as a confirmation that’s he’s broken?”

John stared at her, words failing him. How could they just abandon him to his thoughts and fears, to the siren song of drugs. “You don’t understand...”

“Just think about it. How would it make you feel if your roles were reversed? I’m not saying to leave him along for hours right away. Start small. Leave the flat for 15 minutes. Give him some space, John. See how he handles it.” The timer went off and Ella set her notebook aside. “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for today. I’d the to see you next week.” They both stood. “And John, make sure he keeps seeing his counsellor.”

The doctor gave a curt nod, then left Ella's office, his mind turning over everything that had been said.

* * *

John chose to walk most of the way home, taking the tube only a short portion of the journey. As he walked, he thought about how he would feel in Sherlock’s place. It was impossible to know, really. He wasn’t the one who had been raped. The closest thing he had experienced was how he had felt after he had been shot.

John had hated the constant presence of the doctors and nurses whilst he had been in hospital. He had wanted nothing more than a bit of privacy and to be left the hell alone. Of course, later, when he had been by himself without support in that lonely bedsit, he’d hated the endless solitude.

He wouldn’t be deserting Sherlock to anything like that though, if he just gave his friend a few minutes on his own, just 15 minutes. He himself would have treasured that after he had been shot. Surely 15 minutes wasn’t too long for him to leave the flat. Besides, Mycroft had the place under surveillance. He could simply step out to Speedy's. That would work. He’d be close by if anything went amiss.

Too soon, he found himself standing outside 221. He braced himself, standing tall, and entered. As he climbed the 17 steps, he noted that it was quiet. Too quiet. He missed Sherlock faffing about, playing the violin or performing mad experiments.

Upon entering the living room, he found Mrs. Hudson knitting. From the door, be could hear the shower going. John gave a sigh. “Thank you for looking after him, Mrs. Hudson.”

“He was no trouble at all,” she said sadly as she gathered up her things. “What I wouldn’t give for a nice chemical explosion or a nice fire.”

The doctor gave her a one-armed hug. “I know. I feel exactly the same way. We’ll get him back. I promise.”

“I do hope so, John.” Mrs. Hudson wiped away a tear and made a hasty retreat before she could start crying in earnest.

John's mind was made up. He was going to follow Ella's advice and see how Sherlock reacted. Things couldn’t get much worse. That decision made, he phoned Mycroft and informed him of his plan. A short argument ensued, but the doctor won in the end. When it came to what was best for Sherlock, the government official almost always bent to John's judgement. Of course, if the doctor was wrong, there would be hell to pay.

Hanging up his coat, John settled in like it was any other day. He’d wait a few hours before implementing his plan. For now, he simply picked up his novel and tried to read.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock didn’t know what John had told Mrs Hudson to get her to sit with him. Obviously, she knew something was wrong, but he didn’t know the details. He was fairly certain she didn’t think drugs were involved because she didn’t have that particularly worried look she’d had about her when he used to get high. Whatever the doctor had said, it didn’t matter anyway. Sherlock had more important things to do than listen to her gossip so he didn’t pay her any attention.

His Mind Palace had always been a place of refuge for him in the past, but he had only visited it a handful of times since the events on the underground. Those few times, he had tried to ignore the slimy, odiferous debris that littered its halls, the memories that refused to be deleted or even filed away. Now, he wanted to reclaim his Mind Palace, not that that was something he had discussed with his therapist.

The detective sat on the end of the sofa with his arms wrapped around his legs, his knees pulled up against his chest. It wasn’t his usual pose for entering his Mind Palace, but it felt safer, somehow.

As he let the real world fall away, he found himself in his Mind Palace, the scattered debris of unwanted memories all around him. As he turned to take everything in, something fluttered just at the edge of his vision… something new, no, something old. Try as he might, he couldn’t catch sight of it. He traversed the hallways in his mind, trying to leave the disturbance behind. Finding himself at the door of John’s room, he entered and closed the door behind him. The memories and fluttering shadows were locked safely out and he breathed a sigh of relief as he slid down the door and sat there, shaking.

Sherlock let himself rest there for several long minutes, basking in everything he had stored in his Mind Palace about John. Everything from his smile to the way he pretended to read when Sherlock played the violin. He spent several moments replaying the sweet kisses they had shared before Sherlock had put a stop to them. After an indeterminate amount of time, he knew he had to leave this safe space and return to the real world. He was accomplishing nothing here.

Leaving John's room, he was assailed by the scattered memories. They seemed to have congregated outside the door and he had to wade through their slimy stench. At the same time, the fluttering, dark shadows bombarded him from every side. He felt himself panicking as he emerged from his Mind Palace into the real world. His breathing was wild and erratic.

Thinking of what Doctor Dieter had taught him, the detective placed his feet on the floor. He tensed every muscle in his body, then released the tension in preparation for getting his breathing under control. Even as he placed one hand on his chest and the other just below his diaphragm, he was aware of Mrs Hudson watching him. He closed his eyes and ignored her, only paying attention to his breathing and the motions of his hands.

At first, it felt like he was fighting himself. It always did. It felt unnatural trying to breathe deeply whilst keeping the hand on his chest still so that only the hand resting just below his diaphragm moved. It simply felt wrong. Still, he kept at it until, finally, he felt the shift in his breathing. The hand on his chest simply rested there, unmoving. For the next twenty minutes, he simply breathed and felt his body relax into it.

Sherlock finally became aware of the smell of panic sweat that pervaded him. It reminded him of the unpleasant odour his fractious memories had carried with them and it made him feel sullied all over again. He felt the need to the stench and the filth off his skin. Standing, he headed towards the bathroom.

Mrs Hudson, who had studiously pretended not to be aware of Sherlock’s actions, rested her knitting on her lap. “Sherlock, dear, where are you going?”

“Shower,” he grumbled and disappeared into the bathroom. With the doors to the small room safely locked, he stripped and stepped into the shower. He turned the water up as hot as he could stand it and stood in the stream, letting it wash the filth away.

When Sherlock exited the shower, he used the door to his room. He considered putting on more pyjamas, but decided to don a suit instead. It would remove him one more step from the filth he had imagined on his skin. That was something he needed to talk to his counsellor about. The filthy feeling could hit him at any time and nearly drive him mad. He stared at himself in the mirror. Perhaps he would need to discuss his Mind Palace as well, loathe as he was to bring up the matter.

Once dressed, the detective returned to the living room expecting to see their landlady sitting in John's chair. Instead, it was the man himself. Sherlock felt himself relax. He felt safer with John there and less like a child being babysat. “I'm glad you’re home,” he said simply. He meant it more than words could say.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: This chapter is where underage sexual abuse is first openly hinted at. If that's a problem, please don’t read this chapter. It's not explicit and I'll never depict it in a more explicit manner than is shown in this chapter.

Despite how rocky the day had been, the evening had been rather pleasant. Sherlock had even found the wherewithal to send an email to Doctor Dieter requesting he familiarize himself with the method of loci if he wasn’t familiar with it already. That was something Sherlock appreciated about Doctor Dieter, he encouraged emails if they were important and truly relevant to his recovery. Sherlock was sure that would change if he abused the privilege and, for once, he was loathe to risk alienating a doctor besides John.

Now Sherlock was faced with the night and sleep and, unfortunately, the inevitable dreams that would come his way. John had already gone to bed some time ago and Sherlock couldn’t put it off any longer.

Feet dragging, Sherlock headed to his bedroom and climbed into bed. He practiced his breathing as he called to mind his memories of the kisses he had once allowed himself to steal from John, the little kisses that he missed so much. It took quite some time, but Sherlock finally drifted off, the memory of their kisses following him into sleep.

_Sherlock and John were kissing on the sofa. John kept his hands to himself, allowing Sherlock to cup his face and guide the kiss. It was a chaste kiss to start out with, soft and almost playful, but Sherlock wanted more. He deepened the kiss, opening his mouth against John’s and seeking entrance. John opened to him and the kiss grew heated. It was perfect it its passion._

_Just as John reached for him, everything changed. 221B melted away, as did John. In his place was the ginger haired man that, until now, Sherlock had only glimpsed. The man moved quickly, pinned Sherlock down and spoke into his ear, “I've missed you, William.” Sherlock tried to throw him off, but he was in the body of his eight year old self. He kicked and screamed..._

_“Sherlock,” called a voice from afar._

_The ginger haired man slapped him._

_“Sherlock!” The distant voice was more insistant._

_“Calm down William,” the ginger haired man said._

“Sherlock! Wake up!” John shouted from beside Sherlock’s bed. “You're having a nightmare.”

Sherlock sat up, shaking. He wrapped his arms around himself. His dream was still with him in disturbing detail. For several moments, he wondered what it meant and the implications weren’t lost on him, but he refused to face it. Instead, he shoved everything into a closet in his Mind Palace and locked the door.

Gingerly, John sat down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. He left plenty of room between himself and Sherlock, not wanting him to feel crowded or cornered in any way. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock glared at him full force.

“Yeah, stupid question,” John acknowledged, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should probably try to get some more sleep.” He started to stand.

Sherlock reached out and grabbed John by the wrist. “Stay.” It wasn’t logical, he knew that. He could barely stand to be touched if he didn’t know it was coming, but the thought of sleeping alone suddenly terrified him.

“I really don’t think...” John began.

Sherlock took three of his ridiculously numerous pillows and built a wall down the middle of the bed, then he turned a pleading look to John. “Stay. Please.”

Even with the pillows dividing the bed, it was against John's better judgment, but he couldn’t say no to Sherlock, not when he used that tone and actually said please. “Alright.” John walked around the bed and climbed in the other side. He rolled onto his side facing Sherlock. “Night, Sherlock.”

“Night.” Sherlock settled down under the covers, looking at John. He felt safer knowing John was there and he closed his eyes, hoping to sleep without dreaming.

John fell asleep first. The sound of his quiet, steady breathing soothed Sherlock. He listened to it until it eventually lulled him to sleep.

The next morning, Sherlock woke much later than normal, having slept the remainder of the night dreamlessly. He lay there looking at the ceiling, feeling nothing short of relief. When he heard a snuffle, he turned his head to look at John who was still sleeping. John’s face was smashed into his pillow and drool was escaping the corner of his mouth. The image made Sherlock smile. He wished he dared to reach over and wrap an arm around him. There were so many things he wanted to do with John. It made him all the more determined to heal.

That thought made him think of his appointment with Doctor Dieter. It was in just a few hours. He slipped quietly from bed so as not to wake John and got ready for the day. When he was done, he went into the living room.

Sherlock felt restless, almost bored, even. He hadn’t felt like this in a long time. He went over to the cold cases Lestrade had left for him and pulled one out. He could at least work on it whilst he passed the time waiting on his appointment.

A few minutes later, John wandered sleepily into the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Mm.”

“I'll take that as a yes. And toast.”

“Whatever.” The next words that came out of Sherlock’s mouth surprised even him. “Come with me to see Doctor Dieter?”

“What?” John asked, turning to face Sherlock in surprise.

Sherlock swallowed hard. Now that he had said it, he realised that he truly wanted John there. “You know I hate repeating myself.”

“But you want me there,” John reiterated, seeking confirmation.

In Sherlock’s Mind Palace, the door to the closet he had locked his dream and subsequent surmises into rattled loudly. “Yes. It would be... helpful.”

John nodded. “Then I’ll come.” He returned to making coffee and toast, quite aware of the relief that Sherlock exuded. Anything that he could do to make things easier for him, he would and gladly.


	16. Chapter 16

When Sherlock’s name was called to go back to Doctor Dieter's office, he froze, but only for a moment. Standing, Sherlock walked towards the office door, not looking to see if John was following. In fact, he had avoided looking at John all morning. It was making John wonder if he was truly wanted at this session.

Once they were in the office, Doctor Dieter closed the door. “You must be Doctor Watson. I’ve hear a lot about you.” He held out his hand for John to shake.

John took it. “John, please.” He noted that Sherlock had already sat. When the handshake broke, he took a seat by Sherlock and Doctor Dieter sat in a chair across from them.

“So, Sherlock. How are you feeling on a scale from 1 to 10. 1 being the...”

“Six,” Sherlock interrupted Doctor Dieter.

“That's not too bad. But your demeanour seems to belie that. You’re more tense than a six would indicate.” Doctor Dieter uncrossed his legs. “Take a few moments to simply breathe, then try to tell me why you’re so tense.” He suspected it was John’s presence, but he wanted to hear that from Sherlock himself.

Sherlock took a few moments to breathe and calm himself. When his knee finally stopped bouncing, he felt ready to begin. He turned his head slightly towards John, but not enough to face him. “There are things that John needs to know. Things...” He took a deep breath. “John doesn’t know how much he matters. He needs to know that.” With those words, his knee started bouncing again.

“Alright. But why bring John here to do that?” Doctor Dieter asked. “You could have told him what he needs to know at home where it’s more private.

Sherlock shook his head in frustration. “No! I can’t. I always say the wrong thing!” He thought of the kisses that were no longer his because his Mind Palace had betrayed him and confused him with a riot of hateful emotions attached to the attack. He thought of his outburst and how he had hurt John. “I want him, but I can’t have him. I want to be with him. Last night, I had a nightmare about... it doesn’t matter. But John slept with me. We had to build a barrier of pillows so we wouldn’t accidentally touch in the night and trigger me! I should be over this by now!”

John started to say something, but Doctor Dieter beat him to it. “Consider this possibility. Perhaps you're sabotaging yourself, Sherlock. You’re trying too hard to make everything normal. Stop trying so hard. What the two of you did last night was good if it worked.”

“It did,” John interjected. “He slept better than he has in ages.” He gave a sheepish smile. “So did I for that matter.” It had been wonderful. He hadn’t worried about Sherlock all night.

“See, Sherlock. Let yourself enjoy that victory. And look back. Have there been others?” Doctor Dieter asked. When Sherlock didn’t speak, John cleared he throat. “John?”

“There were, but... Sherlock and I were touching more. We still are, some, if he sees it coming, but, well, there was a misunderstanding and some things might have been said. Since then...” John shrugged.

“My fault,” Sherlock insisted, for the first time looking at John. “I can’t forget the things I said. I hurt you. I don’t deserve the comfort of your touch, not after that.” His voice broke and his eyes welled with tears.

“That's complete bollocks,” John said, offering his hand, palm up. “I've forgotten about it. We can’t let it keep standing between us.” He wriggled his fingers. “Please.”

With Doctor Dieter looking politely away, Sherlock slowly took John’s hand.

“You can have this,” John told Sherlock. “Any time you want it. You can have this or anything else. All you have to do is ask or just reach out and touch me. And when it’s too much, say so and I’ll back off.” It would hurt and John knew there would be times he would get angry, but he’d just have to deal with it.

Sherlock’s eyes glistened. “Even when I’ve been an idiot?”

John gave his hand a squeeze. “Especially then.” 

Doctor Dieter gave the two men a few moments, then he broke in gently, “That's good. Excellent. Now, Sherlock is there anything else that you want to talk about today? Our time is almost up, but I don’t want you to leave without touching on everything that you want to discuss. Remember, this is your time and your safe space.”

The ginger from Sherlock’s nightmare flashed through his mind, but he shoved it away, back into the closet in his Mind Palace. His Mind Palace. He had wanted to talk about it and its current state before his sudden impulse to bring John along. “Have you heard of the method of loci?” He asked Doctor Dieter. “No, I can tell from the look on your face.” Sherlock explained it quickly, knowing his time was running short. “Next time... My Mind Palace is a shambles. It’s not safe inside. I need help getting control of it.”

“Alright. I’ll see what I can plan before our next session,” Doctor Dieter promised, his curiosity piqued. “Time is up. Now remember. It may not feel like it, but you made some real progress today. You opened up not only to me, but finally directly to John. I want you to try to do that more. Practice communicating how you feel and what your needs are. Don’t make him guess.”

Sherlock nodded. When he stood, he and John stood together, not releasing their grip. They bid Doctor Dieter farewell and headed back out of the office, then towards Baker Street.


	17. Chapter 17

When John and Sherlock got back to Baker Street, Sherlock drifted over to one of the windows in the living room and looked out on the street below.

John left him to his thoughts and went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. While he waited for it to boil, he leaned against the side and let out a deep sigh. The visit to see Doctor Dieter had been productive, but tiring. After a few moments standing there, he heard the strains of the violin as they floated through the air. His heart sped up and his eyes watered. It had become extremely rare for Sherlock to play. It seemed like ages since he had done it last. John closed his eyes and let himself enjoy it whilst he waited for the kettle to boil. When it did, he switched it off and made them both tea, carrying it into the living room. He set Sherlock’s on the coffee table, then took a seat in his chair.

For almost an hour, the flat was filled with music. It was quiet and subdued music; peaceful, but not melancholy. It soothed something inside John that had been aching for weeks and he relaxed enough to drift of to sleep.

When Sherlock finally stopped playing, he put his instrument away then turned to face John. Seeing John resting peacefully touched Sherlock in an unexpected way. It had been so long since he had seen John relaxed. He felt like he had finally done something right for the first time in weeks.

Quietly, Sherlock took a seat in his chair and simply watched John. He wanted to take some of the pressure off of him. He felt incredibly guilty for what he was putting John through on a daily basis. That was going to change. Things were going to be more like they had been this morning. He was going to see to it.

Sherlock decided the place to start to ensure that was his Mind Palace. He had planned to talk with Doctor Dieter about it, but he didn’t think it could wait. He needed to try to clear it out of the random debris that littered it now, that or lock the debris away in a closet or dungeon. Hopefully that would stop the nightmares and he could go on with his life.

Closing his eyes and folding his hands in a prayerful manner beneath his chin, Sherlock ventured into his Mind Palace. He didn’t go deep, just stepped into his inner representation of 221B. It seemed peaceful there. Inner John was present and asleep in his chair just as the real John was in the real world. His presence comforted Sherlock and gave him more confidence in his endeavour. 

Sherlock explored the communal areas of the flat and even his own bedroom and found nothing distressing. He attributed that to inner John’s presence. With him there, the flat seemed to be a haven. He went and sat across from inner John to savour the small victory for a bit, but the victory was short lived.

From beyond the flat doors, there came scuffling noises and a call of ‘William.’ Immediately, Sherlock dashed to the main door and locked it, then locked the door in the kitchen. The sounds continued however.

Sherlock wanted to flee his Mind Palace, but he was locked in place by an overwhelming horror. When a hand touched his shoulder, he whipped around and cringed back.

“Easy. Easy,” inner John said, holding his hands up and making a calming gesture. “It's just me.” He gestured with his head towards the door. “But that’s not.” He eased his hand towards the small of his back and pulled out his SIG. “He won’t get in here. I promise you. This is your safe place.”

Sherlock looked at inner John in awe. No matter where, in his Mind Palace or in the real world, John was his protector. It was humbling. He didn’t have time to contemplate it however, as the door rattled in its frame as something from the other side pounded on it.

Inner John emptied the SIG into the door and kept firing, the bullets passing through it without showing signs of damage. A howling came from behind the door that was followed by silence. The silence stretched out for several long seconds. Finally Sherlock sagged and would have collapsed had inner John not caught him. Inner John lifted Sherlock into his arms and carried him to the sofa where he sat and held Sherlock until he had relaxed and drifted off to sleep. When Sherlock woke, he woke in the real world.

John was busy making dinner for them. The smell of the stir fry was what had woke Sherlock. The memory of what had happened in his Mind Palace came back to him immediately. His first instinct was to share it with John, then he remembered his promise to keep things normal and less off kilter. He couldn’t tell him. It would only make John worry. There had been enough of that.

A voice inside Sherlock’s head, one that sounded suspiciously like John’s, said, “What about honesty and communication?” Sherlock waved it off and went to join John in the kitchen. He knew what he was doing. He wanted John to be relaxed and happy again.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Sherlock said as he deliberately placed his hand on John's shoulder.

John looked around, surprised by the gesture. “Neither did I." He shrugged. “I suppose we needed it. It’s the most relaxed I’ve been in... Well, it just was.” John turned off the hob and plated the stir fry. “I hope you’re hungry.” He said hopefully. Sherlock’s eating habits had improved in recent weeks and he was more willing to eat, which John was thankful for.

Sherlock wasn’t really hungry, but John looked so hopeful, all he could do was say, “Of course.” 

They sat next to each other at the table and ate, Sherlock grasping John’s hand and holding it the entire time. It felt good to be doing so again. His other issues could just sod off.

**Author's Note:**

> I read and treasure every single comment I receive, but I'm totally crap at responding to them. Please know that they fuel me. Thank you in advance.
> 
> If you want to podfic or translate this or create a drawing based on it, go for it. Just please let me know and link back to my fic.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://shippingintothenight.tumblr.com) or @sherlockian4evr on Twitter.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "Finding His Way"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14001777) by [Drawn Lines (sherlockian4evr)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/Drawn%20Lines)




End file.
